You'll always be something like Untouchable
by Suga Bee
Summary: There were things I knew about Francis, & things I guessed about Francis, & things that I had come to terms with about Francis, but never did I think he'd become so inconsistent, consistently. Now that I think about it, maybe he was always untouchable...
1. I thought I knew

**This is to the magnificent Purple-Ripples, who suggested I write some FrUk, my second fave couple!**

**As a heads up, this story contains college life, drinking, sex, rape, cheating, libraires, the truth, lies, friendships, love, loss, death, books, a king, 8 wives, one miracle, and one million reasons why none of this was ever going to work. :) Enjoy! **

**Also, I'm attempting to meld humor into my stories (Those of you who are avid readers know I NEVER have humor), so this is new...**

**Notes:**

**If its in _italics, _the word is stressed or read differently than the rest of the surrounding text, such as when someone is thinking, reading, cursing, or speaking in a different language.**

**If in bold, italics and underlined, its being read in their mind. **

**Yep, thats all. :) ENJOY! **

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><p>"Francis."<p>

"Hmm?~"

"Stop staring." My eyes never left the page as I reminded him for the millionth time for that afternoon. I didn't even have to look up in order to know he was doing it.

I used to love days like this, where I could sit in the secluded section of "English History" on the top floor, far right side of the college library. There was seldom a person to come by and interrupt me in my research but it seemed that Francis was making this a habit of I refunding me and proving to be such a nuisance. I usually had to hold my tongue and just keep focused on King Henry the VIII and his notorious line of wives, my new topic of study. I liked Catherine of Argon the best, and was again engrossed in the words of a rather passionate monologue when I could feel his eyes drifting back to me.

"Francis, stop it."

"Stop what, love?

"Staring! Stop staring, it's hard to concentrate with you just staring."

"I'm _not _staring," came his cool, measured reply, the tone seeming so obvious and a tad bit hurt. "I was _gazing_."

I pretended to retch, setting down my book and giving him a pathetic, _'Are you serious?_' face.

"Francis, _please_, I'm in the middle of a _very _important passage, and you've destroyed my entire mood that was building up until that point. Please, tend to your own studies, text, browse, do **anything** but _stare_ at me!

"Like I said, I wasn't staring, it was gazing!" he defended himself with a hand causally flipping his curls from his shoulder. "It should be taken as a compliment." there was a treacherous pout to his lips as his foot bobbed under the table and brushed against mine, eyes falling seductively as he tried to win my attention over with a soft, forlorn smile.

"Just leave me alone, you ass."

He didn't argue anymore, neither did he take his eyes from me as I lifted my book up and turned the leafy page.

**This was the first thing I knew about Francis Bonnefoy**: He, for whatever reason, didn't have anything better to do on Saturday afternoons than to pester me.

You'd think that for the partier in him, this was insufferable, and I was sure that if I kept up the annoyed silence and completely ignored him, then he'd leave. But it was edging on day 13, and he's still here. Never does he read, or answer when his phone when it buzzes, or look interested in completing one of the many papers I know whose due dates are fast approaching. He just stares.

Oh, I'm sorry, _"gazes."_

I fell easily back into the book, even though I had reprimanded Francis on messing up my concentration, but really nothing was lost, the poor Spanish princess still had my sympathies, and as I flipped the page, I started a new chapter.

_'He was the king first, and my husband second. When I married him, I knew that, but now as I watched him lick his lips and talk excitably with that Anne Boleyn, I couldn't push the feeling of dread from my sinking like an anchor in my chest. I was losing him, losing my place, all to a woman so much younger than me, much fairer than me. She was beautiful with all those dark curls falling from her coif onto the milky curve of her neck.'_

_'The way her dress was tightened made her perky breasts bounce lusciously when she laughed, and the pearl necklace that his majesty had bestowed upon her for her seventeenth birthday laid on her collar bone reflecting her innocence, even though the jade jewel that hung down sat nestled in her cleavage. I hated her for that effortless beauty. As I looked at my own dress I noticed just how simple and refined I appeared, the lace at my throat coving my sun kissed skin, my own aged body hidden in the heavy folds of my dress. He didn't want to hear my songs any more. He never laid beside me or rested his head on my lap so I could thread my ringed fingers through his curls like I used to after we had married. There was never any love, and as my beauty went, so did his attention, to a younger, clever, filled out, curvaceous girl. I wasn't jealous, I was saddened. That my love life was over, and my prime had passed.'_

I hurt along with Catherine, that she had lost her husband to such a devious fox like Anne. In all my research, Anne was my most hated of all of Henry's wives, simply because she had stolen the sweet Catherine of her throne so unrightfully, and **'damn it, if Francis doesn't stop staring at me, I'll _rip his balls off_.'**

"Francis!"

He tried to quickly avert his eyes, as if he was sly enough to not be caught, only to end up looking lost and idiotically curious as he drifted his head around the library ceiling, suddenly interested in the tiles.

Finally he settled his wide eyed gaze on me, as if my words had just reached me. "Oh, I'm sorry Arthur, had you said something?"

I rolled my eyes and gave a great sigh, closing the book and pinning my forehead to the desk, letting out mock sobs of frustration.

"I just want to _**READ." **_I lamented, squeezing my eyes shut until my irises saw bursts of starry light.

"Oh, come on, it can't be that interesting, let me see," and before I could snatch the book from his manicured hands, Francis had taken it and leaned away from me, picking up his reading from where I had left off.

A smile was curving quickly on his smug face as he placed his elbows on the table, almost in hysterics as he read on. "Oh my God, what is this, cheap smut?"

"No, you uncultured idiot, this is the inner thoughts of a queen!" I was trying to reach for the book but he was pushing against me so he could read more.

_'Oh, how I wish to bed my husband at least one more time, to taste love like honey on his kingly lips.'_ His voice was full with mock royalty, making a fuss over the entire serous piece. _'I could see the lust like a red fire in his eyes as he swept those hands over her womanly body, noticing that she was no longer the peasant girl who had come to court all those years ago. He was wondering what her lips felt like bent in a kiss, how that supple body felt like pressed against his hardened fervor, how her light voice sounded as she screamed in the throes of passion.'_ Do you get off to this or something?" His laugh was insufferable and haughty as he flipped through the book some more, unaware of the flush fervently beating in my cheeks as I scrambled to grab the text back. _'If only I could get him to spill his seed into me once again so we might try one last time for a baby.'_ This bitch is crazy, what's her problem? And this Anne sounds hot."

"Give it back you git!" I laid over the table and was reaching hard to grab the book. "Anne was just some slut in the court and she got what she deserved in the end! Catherine was a chaste, lovely queen! On what grounds do you stand to say such things?"

He finally gave up the struggle, throwing the book on the table uncaringly, the yellowed, musty pages crinkling with a thud as it landed, disheveled. I scrambled to straighten it, throwing a hurt and hateful glance to Francis.

"It's just a book, and they're just people, dead in some grave. What do you care?" I suddenly was furious at the way he held his shoulders, so proud and pompous as he stiffened his posture, chin held high as he looked down on me.

I opened my mouth to protest, but I sputtered as I came up with nothing. Sure, I was English so it's history was always interesting, but as of late I had been obsessing with this flirtatious king and his wives for what seems like little reason.

"It's just fun to read. Being illiterate and French, I doubt you understand what it's like to come from a fascinating country."

**This was the second thing I knew about Francis:** He was of French decent, and was keen on protecting that.

_"Fascinant? S'il vous plaît, j'ai vu des choses plus fascinant dans un livre en braille! Vous pensez que je veux m'asseoir et regarder autour de vous lu cette merde? Je viens de vous parler, imbécile. Dieu, un tel gaspillage de mon temps. Antonio avait raison, je devrais renoncer à vous, vous prude. "_

I was completely taken aback as he started to spit out the language, his words frilled and a bit over run with his sudden thick accent. He gathered his belongings with a huff and practically stomped out of the library, my apologies welling up in me like a monsoon.

"Francis! Come on Francis, wait!" Forgetting my book, I strode to the banister and looked over the edge, scanning the aisles of books for him, only to watch as Francis made his way to the front of the first floor, disappearing into a blind spot between the "Mysteries" and "Romance". My teeth ground together in anger at him, still confused on why he was so mad, and why on earth he kept coming back each day.

You see, we always fought like this, ending usually with one of us yelling and the other leaving, but never have I heard him speak in his mother tongue, or so I speculated was his first language, from the way he seemed to slip so easily into it at the first instinctual emotion. I knew that when around his girlfriends, he'd drop a few words like "Cheri," "l'amor" and "vous le vous couche avec moi?" But never had I actually heard him sound so serious and so in his own element. It was like he was reverting back to his old ways.

Hearing it felt almost_ intimate_.

I walked back, defeated as I collected my things and placed the heavy book under my arm, my mind still spinning with what he had said. I was used to fighting with him, so why did this seem so _different?_

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><p><strong>Translations are thanks to Google, so you guys who know French know for a fact that this is wrong, but this is what was meant.<em> "Fascinating? Please, I've seen more fascinating things in a Braille book! You think I want to sit around and just watch you read this crap? I come to talk to you, idiot. God, such a waste of my time. Antonio was right, I should give up on you, you prude."<em>**

**So how are you liking it? **

**Good? Bad? Should I just give up?**

**Is there promise?**

**Do you want this couple?**

**Another couple?**

**Talk to me and I answer! I swear I don't bite!**

**Have questions? Ask! **

**Read and review my lovely readers. **

**With dearest love,**

**Suga Bee**


	2. I had no idea

**Ok...so after thinking long and hard about what I want to do with this...I've decided. Its going to turn into something very very intresting. A little hint...**

**TIME TRAVLE.**

**Lolz, can't wait to see how you guys like this. Sorry if it's slow, and sorry for a lot of awkward writing, but here you go, one more chapter. **

**With hopefully more to come. :)**

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><p><strong>-WW- <strong>

I was lounging in my dorm bed, lamp light over head buzzing a little as it flickered uncertainly every so often. I was still reading about my dear Catherine of Aragon, partially because I had given up on attempting to translate what little I remembered from Francis' rant and because my flat mates out at some party that Gilbert was hosting, so this would be some good quite time to catch up on my reading.

They were all in building A level 5, the Coed quarter, top floor. Everyone knew that the patrols were too lazy to climb the stairs so they never made rounds unless there was a death or emergency, so the entire student body was able to party without being discovered.

I had been invited, but like all the other times, I had declined. I had work tomorrow, no time for a hangover.

'After this chapter, I'd go to bed.' I kept telling myself, until the chapter would end and I'd effortlessly read on, suddenly remembering half way in that I had said 'end of the chapter.' Oh well, next one then.

The clock was nearing 12:00AM, and I was rereading the same line over and over again by accident. _"I know there was a moment I could have said no, and I missed it."_With a deep yawn and stretch, I dog-eared my page and left it on the table, hand reaching up naturally to pull the string for the light.

It wasn't quite dark enough though, my window lit up with the stars that were painted staggeredly in the late night sky and the muffled lights that were on in the building beside mine. I could hear the music faintly, groaning as I came to terms with the fact that I probably wouldn't be able to fall to sleep until the raging party was over.

But the more I thought about the party, the more I thought about how Francis and I had parted on such sour words, so I started thinking about my readings and the paper that was due in a few weeks on it. But the more I thought of Catherine, the more I thought of Anne, and Henry, and how Francis kind of reminded me of him.

Both liked their share of women, both loved every lady they had brought to bed, both never stayed in a relationship for long, or even for the right reasons.

**That was the third thing I suddenly understood about Francis**: He had a way of twisting into my thoughts, like a terrible, weedy rose bush.

Ever since I accidently bumped into him in the hall way, a memory that seemed like a million years ago, he was flowering in my mind with the simplest provocation, now becoming the dreaded king that had moved from wife to wife at his fancy.

I wondered why Francis did it, moved quickly from fling to fling. Henry did it because it was a power struggle, he had to feel in control over all his subjects. That, and he was a young man with an insatiable sex drive and long line of beautiful, rich, willing women.

But what drove Francis to the tramp life style?

**-WW-**

I was beginning to think that the party was going to wear on all night, just as the lights dimmed across the way, and a crashing sound resonating against the suddenly silent night.

Just as I looked out the window to investigate the sudden halt in commotion, I saw people shimmying down rain gutters and down ropes they had thrown down in a panic. A few had their shirts or pants thrown over their shoulders as they ran from the beams that came from frenzied flash lights in the hands of the patrollers.

"Oops, looks like someone ratted them out." I mused as everyone dispersed into their respectable buildings before they were caught. It took only a few moments before my own roommates came busting through the door with a jingle of keys and clank of bottles. Ivan was trying to shush Alfred as they clamored to their bunk beds, the blonde giggling as if there was something extremely fluffy tickling at his ribs.

"Did you _SEE _his face! HAHA!" Ivan covered Alfred's mouth before he woke up the entire quarter, helping the American onto his shoulders so he could climb up onto the top bunk.

"Shush, Fredka, please, you are going to get us found!" The two stumbled a bit and I prayed that they wouldn't fall over, but after a long minute or two of the pair swaying languidly in a sorry attempt to stabilize themselves, Alfred finally got a good grip on the mattress and pulled himself drunkenly on top. His cheeks were alight with liquor and both boys reeked of vodka, even though I bet Alfred only had a few shots.

Ivan took no time to fall asleep after he had curled up on the bottom bunk, and, after mumbling a slurred snippet of lyrics, Alfred had drifted off too.

Antonio's entrance was much quieter, a fresh smile on his lips, his shoes in his hands as he tip toed in. He waved to me politely through the darkness, flipping the kitchenette switch to dimly light the room. As he apologized with a tired eye roll and a quick Spanish quip at the other two in the room, I laughed light heartedly at it even though I hadn't understood him. He came over and sat on the end of my bed, asking what I was up to so late.

"Nothing much," I whispered, "Was just reading when the whole thing broke up. What happened?"

"Somebody thought it'd be _muy gracioso_ to light fire crackers off in the stairwell, and of course that signaled the fire alarm, which turned the over head sprinklers on." I nodded understandingly with a small hint of amusement on my face, and saw that Antonio was a little wet.

I then asked like I always did.

"Was Francis there?" I knew the answer, but I childishly thought that perhaps, this time, he had stayed home and pondered about me.

Maybe just maybe.

"Ya, danced with Liz a bit until Gil got an attitude about it. They got a little aggressive, roughed each other up before Sve stepped in." I knit my eye brows together and frowned slightly at the thought.

"Are they ok?"

"Si, just a little pissed is all. Francis has been taking it hard, that the three of us aren't as close as we used to be." Antonio laced his fingers together and stretched his arms out in front of him as he continued. "After Lovi and I started dating, I couldn't see him and Gil as much. Gil met Liz and they've been inseparably murderous, so Francis is all alone. He's been trying hard to keep us together, but..." there was a dark considering in his chocolate eyes, "...things just aren't like they used to be, Ya know? I mean, we all used to mess around, but those days are over. We're growing up, and I think that poor Francis is still living in the past." I didn't want to picture what Antonio meant by _messing around_, but I did begin to sober a little at the thought that behind his arrogant strut, Francis was melting through the cracks.

_'That's why he spends his free time watching me read...he wants a constant in his world.' _

"You know," Antonio's quick flash of a tired grin caught my eye before I could drift into deeper thought. "He's taken a real fancy to you. Think that you two would-"

"No!" I might have said it a bit rushed, a strong emotion gnashing in my stomach as I did. "We are so not compatible. I mean, he's...not my type." I shook my head against it, hoping Antonio wouldn't take it personally that I wouldn't date his friend, but the Spaniard just shrugged his shoulders and stood.

"Just a thought, amigo. Might be good for him to settle with someone so level headed." He peeled off his white wife beater T shirt and rolled his pitcher's shoulder as he reached for the lights and flicked them off, ending our conversation with a soft, heartfelt, "Buenos noche."

"Night Antonio." And with a nod of his head, he walked into the adjoining room, where I bet his boyfriend was already asleep.

For whatever reason, as I rolled over and relished the quiet and the dark, I couldn't find an ounce of tiredness in me. All I could think of was how much of a mystery Francis was to me.

**And that was the fourth thing I learned about Francis Bonnefoy**: He was as catchable as steam with your bare hands.

**-WW-**

Monday's meant working at the Pub downtown. It was a small, dark place that was always barren except for one lone man here and there or on the weekends when all the students came pouring in with their freshly made IDs. I liked the feint smell of liquor and the veterans who liked to talk a little as they drank, their stories were always interesting, but today, only one gentleman had ordered and quickly left, a corner table filled with a few friends I saw around campus who were smoking and ruffling through textbooks preparing for a final.

I wiped down the bar again, though there really was no reason too, and propped my arms up onto the rugged wood, book in my hands as I found some free time to read.

That's when my manager approached me, smiling that wide open lipped grin and patting me on the back.

"Take your studies home, I'll finish up around here." There wasn't any hint of argument as I collected my back pack and took a quick sip of Guinness for the road, waving to the students and then to my manger as I opened the door and blustered through the cold winter's afternoon, headed north for the library.

**-WW-**

I shivered my coat off as I entered the library, taking in a deep lungful of smoldering wood and hot chocolate from the coffee shop that lay inside. I ordered a cup from Liz, who looked miserably tired, 'From that party fiasco last night,' I mused, and trekked my way toward the stairs so I could begin my ascent to my third floor sanctuary.

That was, until I heard something from between the book shelves, like mumbling and ruffling. I padded around softly, hoping not to scare off whatever was trying to keep so quite, and that's when I saw it.

At the cross roads of Romance and Mystery, between the R-X section, were two people melded to each other and kissing hurriedly.

The younger boy was standing full on his tip toes to kiss at the older man, his fingers grasping at his shirt and then pulling up to untie the blue sash and let down all those golden curls, his movements clumsy and quick as if this was exciting and foreign.

The blonde was leaning low and lovely, coaxing and drawing everything out of the boy, signs and moans and giggles of laughter as he nipped at the collar bone, sucked at the round of the shoulder, and ghosted lips past his ear.

For whatever reason, I couldn't move, couldn't talk, just...stood watching as the two mingled.

A sound then came from my throat, almost like a small whimper, or the loose beginnings of words, or maybe a bit of my heart trying escape, the noise reaching the two as I watched Francis pull away from his companion and turn slowly...knowingly to me.

His eyes looked sated and like pastels, lips slightly pouting and quivering as I saw realizations hit him and he dropped the boy from his grasp.

Feliciano braced himself against the book case, fear in his eyes at being caught, embarrassedly pulling his coat up around his shoulders to hide the marks, though my eyes weren't anywhere but on Francis' as he tried to stumble for an apology.

"Arthur,-" his voice wavered with tears, with panic and hot metal as he came after me, chasing on my heels as I headed for anywhere away from this suddenly stuffy, closing in, crowded library.

As I burst through the library's doors and out onto the side walk, I heard the small Italian yelling for Francis to stop, and the harsh clatter of a coffee mug being shattered on the floor, and the strange sound of a honking horn, and the rumbling of bus wheels, just as I tripped into the street, facing head lights and the horrified face of a driver.

At that split moment, I felt some kind of hold around me, curls tickling my cheeks and tears on my shirt, and the terrified voice in French telling me to look out.

**That was the last thing I knew about Francis**: He would, and forever would try to be, the hero.

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><p><strong>HMMMMMMMM...<strong>

**:) So? Your thoughts? **

**And don't worry, Im not the kind of writer to make everything predictable...**

**This isnt over yet. ;) **


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